


Ace of Hearts

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, F/F, POV Second Person, Root's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: Just as your heart belongs to Shaw, your body belongs only to The Machine.





	Ace of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orphicsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphicsend/gifts).



Your first time with her was explosive. You didn’t want to make it heavy by mentioning that it was indeed your _first_ time. You don’t want to be teased for being prude (unlikely, since you’ve proven that you’re all bark _and_ bite), you don’t want her to feel burdened with the knowledge (she had been so attentive to you in spite of the hood and zipties), and most of all, you don’t want to consider that there’s something wrong with you.

It had felt off somehow, but you are never one to care much about your body. You’d walk into a gunfight unarmed if that’s what required of you. You were high on the fact that she wanted to have sex with you—it’s the closest to an _I like you_ for her to show you. You always supposed that first time must be awkward at one point and that you require emotional connection to bed someone and that your lack of interest stems from your distrust of people. You hadn’t bothered to pursue that train of thought further, not after she heaved you up onto the table and spent a good part of ten hours in the CIA pickup site by kneeling between your legs, your arms bound and useless against the ziptie.

You’ve always wanted her, in every other way but this one.

“What’s wrong?”

There’s nothing really wrong, you know. You had thrilled over pleasing her, feeling her body submits under your ministration even when you were the one on the literal bottom. It was all fun and easy and satisfying until she was sated and eager to return the favor and something inside you switched off. You are aware of the heat pooling in your lower stomach and the shudder in your breath when she plays with your breasts. Your body is reacting accordingly, but at the same time, it’s not.

“It’s just...” You fumble through your words, unsure on how to tell her without making her run away. After all the tasing and flirting and longing, you’re going to ruin it. You feel the sting of tears on your eyes. “I want you,” you say, sighing. “But I...not really.”

There is a furrow on her brows that you want to smooth down with a kiss while you grab her frozen hand on your chest and guide it between your legs to show her just how much she has affected you. You do none of those. You consider if it’ll do more damage to sooth her with a _you know I love you_ after you just told her that you don’t desire her sexually. You stare up at her instead. She looks so beautiful in all her bare skin and bed hair and post-orgasmic glow and Tomas Koroa would’ve been more than elated to be in your position right now. Yet she chose you over him. This perfect woman wants _you_ and you just turned her down.

She doesn’t leave.

You blink up at the annoying water stain on the otherwise plain white ceiling, even go as far as pinching your arm, before you turn to look on your side. She had rolled off from you, but not to leave the bed. There was no bed or actual sleeping involved in the CIA pickup site and you never pegged her for being cuddly, but there she is, curling and tucking herself against your side after she tugged up the covers for both of you. You think you must have fainted from suffocating yourself between her thighs while she sat on your face earlier.

Days and weeks later, however, she is still in your bed every night.

While it’s good enough for you, you think it’s unfair for her. You say nothing on the matter, content with letting her lead the direction of whatever relationship you’re having, just like usual. For someone who thrives off the adrenaline from shooting people, speeding in a sport car, and enjoying the company of beautiful people, she doesn’t find a replacement as soon as you think she will. In fact, she takes time to bring you food between her shifts at the makeup counter and her side job as getaway driver and fixes your injuries without asking how you get them.

You are so new to all of these—being her highest priority to protect and care, being the sole receiver of her desire and then wanting her not to. After you worked through an understanding of yourself, you tell her to have a fun night. _Just please not three_ , you pleaded, not embarrassed for being possessive because you’re an only child, you never have to share. Perhaps in the future, if there’s a future for the both of you together, it will be wiser for her to have one trusted sexual partner rather than many. But one step at a time, in order.

She doesn’t ask you for confirmation, doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She just stares at you, then nods. It takes over a month before she makes good of your permission.

After The Machine informed you about what’s going to take place, you hole up somewhere faraway from where she is, as though the distance will lighten the stones in your gut. Letting out the steam by hacking is out of the question because you can’t jeopardize your cover identity, so you stick on coding that killer app She wants you to make. Your heart only gets heavier in your chest with every line you type.

Both of you are adults. There is no place to be selfish, not during a war that requires sacrifice. You don’t force her to put her feelings into words and she doesn’t make you do things that you’re uncomfortable with. Yet it still hurts. The jealousy burns your skin and cuts through your heart, but you have no one else to blame but yourself. You don’t want to blame yourself and you understand that she doesn’t blame you either. You keep telling yourself that it is okay over and over again, hoping that it will be true if you repeat it enough.

You have intended on spending the rest of the night awake, alternating between coding and sulking, when the doorknob rattles. You grab the gun on the nightstand and wait. The Machine hasn’t warned you about anything, even though someone is breaking in. The reason becomes clear when the door is pushed open, bright light from the hall streams in, and Shaw, out of all people, steps inside.

She quirked a brow at the gun on your hand. You would have rolled your eyes at her, if not for the fact that she’s _here_. You opted to stay away from the apartment you’ve grown fond of, away from the thought that she wouldn’t be in your bed tonight, and she simply tracked you down. After shutting the door behind her, she puts away her own gun and backup piece then peels off her hoodie and blouse and boots and jeans as she progresses closer to the left side of the bed— _her_ side of the bed. Down in her boyshorts and tanktop, she gets under the cover next to you. The gun is still in your hand and you ponder about shooting yourself—this is surely a dream.

“Why are you here?”

You dare yourself to ask after a long while and she almost drifts off to sleep. The bewilderment loosens your tongue, or that might be the whiskey you consumed between typing the codes.

She gazed up at you. “Where else am I supposed to be?” she asks.

 _With the curious, newly-divorced Tracy Bering from Colorado Springs_ , you want to say, but bite your tongue instead. You know. You can’t help but want to know about her fun night. After all, you just can’t bear it if anyone else hurts her. It’s flattering, but it doesn’t hurt less to know that she has chosen someone who looks just like you. It only makes you feel guilty and broken.

You sigh; put your laptop and gun away before joining her under the cover. “I’d like you to be here with me,” you admit. “Like you always do.”

“I know.”

Her breath smells of mint. Her hair is a bit damp on the tips. You can’t figure out why the faint scent clinging on her is familiar until you bury yourself on the crook of her neck and take a deep inhale. It is yours—she used your toiletries, which answers your wonder of the missing items from your place not a couple of days ago. She’s telling you that she’s yours in a way she can, by showing.

You nuzzle at her collarbone and feel the tiny stutter in her breathing. She is still awake, but says nothing. There is a muted _I love you_ buzzing off of her. The volume is turned way down, like the sound on an old tape. The voices are there, desperate for you to pick up on it. You reply in kind, planting a light kiss on her warm skin and knowing that she gets the message when she wraps an arm around you before falling asleep. You’re too giddy to even sleep that night.


End file.
